


Caged

by WHUMPBBY



Series: Sexy times and VLD prompt fills [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Cock Cage, Filth, Orgasm Denial, Shiro is the poorest puppy, a bit of angst slipped through, because i am apparently unable to skip angst, but it ends well, why do i keep writing filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7606864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WHUMPBBY/pseuds/WHUMPBBY
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shiro ends up on the Arena - as no more than a fighting dog for the Galran slave owners.<br/>But the collar they put on him is a bit different than what might have been expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caged

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, another dirty adventure;] Leave me a juicy co... comment if you liked it and would like to see more.  
> Also, if you want to swap headcanons and ideas, I have a tumblr now:D http://whumpbby.tumblr.com/  
> Enjoy!

**5 months post capture.**

 

He aches.

It’s a strange mix between numbness and oversensitivity. It’s unbearable if he lets himself think about it - so he tries not to think about it. Not there, in the arena, where he has to focus on things outside of his body.

The opponent is two heads taller than him, some sort of a beast with gray skin and flesh reminiscent of an old gnarled tree. It has an uneven number of arms it swings around with terrifying swiftness. Shiro can barely evade the hits. He is a panting, sweating mess barely a minute into the fight and knows that he has to end it quick.

He has little range, the axe he was given this time won't make up for the creature’s reach, he has to come up with something different. He was always good with thinking on his feet - one of the reasons he was the top of his class. Looking at the problem from another point of view was what he did…

But it’s so much harder when like that. So much harder when his own body keeps distracting him whenever he steps wrong.

It makes him doubly impatient to end the battle - and it shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be thinking about it this way. The situation he’s trapped in is horrific, he can’t lose the sight of it for even a moment when his humanity is already slipping away between his fingers.

He needs to focus. Make it quick. As humane as possible, because this creature is more or less his mirror image. It pains him to do it, but he doesn't want to die.

He can’t die. He has to get free, has to get to Earth and warn them what awaits in the dark depths of the universe.

The opponent swings at him wildly and Shiro barely dodges the gnarled limb. It hits the ground at his feet hard enough to make it shake. The crowd gathered to watch hoots in glee, some shout at Shiro to pick himself up, to get on it, to kill.

Shiro tries to block the voices out, they’re never helpful, and it’s a kind of a tragicomedy that this time he’d rather try to ignore the yelling Galrans than his own body. Especially, that there’s nothing he can do to…

His opponent raises his limbs for an attack and Shiro sees an unexpected opening. His muscles seize on their own, is body moves almost on autopilot as he takes the chance, rushes under the flailing arm and hits. The axe buries deep into the twisted rib cage, dark greenish blood sprays across his face. Shiro pays for that hit with a few painful bruises when the creature rears back and flails in pain, but he holds on to the weapon and strains to push it in deeper. For a moment the world closes into a small sphere containing him, the axe and the sound of wailing that dissolves into gurgling breaths and then silence.

He stands on the arena, alone, the crowd cheering around him, the opponent dead at his feet.

He wishes he could focus on regret, on pain, on the need to remain human - but his body gets in the way. Adrenaline pushes through his veins, his flesh wants to react to it, attempts to swell between his legs and when it encounters a barrier, it almost robs Shiro of his breath.

He won the fight, but he feels like crying.     

 

………………………...

 

Later, when the doors to his cell finally close after him, Shiro walks until his forehead meets the opposite wall and slides down to his knees. A sob tears out of his throat. His hands scrabble uselessly against the rough metal of the wall, then his own skin. He pushes his nails into the spaces between his ribs, hugging himself like a crying child, using pain to distract his mind. It’s been… more than a month, he knows that the thing won’t come off. He knows it won't budge, that the only chance he has at reprieve from pain is to wait for his dick to calm the hell down.

The cage is tight around his swollen flesh and the experience is painful in a completely unexpected way. There were a few times in the past, when he was still a teenager, when he happened to squeeze too hard during masturbation; that one time when his former girlfriend almost cut off the blood flow to his dick due to inexperience. But this wasn’t like that. That was sharp and sudden, and startling. This is… burning. Discomfort that doesn’t go away no matter how much Shiro shifts and tries to ignore it. And for some reason, it feels like the less use of his cock he has, the more sensitive it’s becoming.

He doesn’t remember ever having so many _problems_ before. For all intents and purposes, he was rather reserved on that front, it took more than a glimpse of a bare breast or a won match to make Shiro pop one. Now, however, he seems to be getting off on the danger, the fear, the adrenaline flooding his body every time he steps on the arena..

If only there was a way to actually get off.  

He won’t ask for the key to the lock. He won’t beg!

But he isn't sure how much more he is be able to stand.

 

………………………...

 

**3 months post capture.**

 

He is naked and wet, shivering from the impromptu ‘bath’ and yet pathetically grateful for it. ‘Small kindness’ doesn’t even start to cut how ‘small’ and unkind this is, but still he is grateful that he can go to sleep not smelling of blood and filth. He wonders briefly is this how animals feel when the humans that own them do something to better their state from time to time.

Is a cow happy to be bathed before the slaughter?

He curls up by the wall and waits for them to either leave or take him away. He won't move until they make him, he’s too exhausted. He will take these miniscule acts of rebellion, because there’s little else he can do and still feel like a human being.

But the guards aren’t moving. And the Galran isn't leaving.  

No, the big creature stands in the centre of the room and looks at Shiro. Something contemplative flashes in the yellow eyes and the human tenses. God, no, not another _training_. He can’t… this is too much, he can’t, not today…

“You’ve done well today,” the Galran speaks and Shiro finches. Then he hears the words and freezes. What? This was new. Praise wasn’t… it just _wasn’t_.

He wasn’t a fucking _dog_ to be praised for a good fight!

“But you can do better.”

He can’t. He is already something that he’s starting to hate - a beast they were shaping him into and he was aware of it every step of the way.  

“You only need to focus on what’s in front of you.”

He can’t… listen to it. He can’t. He can’t take advice from the monster that stood with one foot crushing Shiro’s soul and commanded him to be proud of the pain he was feeling.

“A warrior should go into the battle unsullied.” He can't say how much of that the Galra believes in or is it just some cruel lie - he hasn’t learned to read them yet. He can't look into their faces for long enough to learn, they terrify him. “These animals can breed with each other as much as they want, they’ll die soon anyway. But you are the Champion, you are different.” He doesn't want to listen, but can’t stop.

The Galra’s voice is unaffected when he orders his henchmen, “Hold him still.”

Too late he starts to struggle - there are already iron-tight grips on his shoulders, pushing him back against the wall. Shiro grits his teeth and tries to fight them off, because that’s the only thing left to him now: fighting and snarling, anger and crippling fear.

The fear pushes out the anger, however, when clawed hands grasp his knees and pull this legs apart. That hasn’t happened yet - and it’s alarming on many different levels.

Shiro bucks and growls, but that does nothing to change his situation, and then he freezes, because the Galran steps closer, leans over him and reaches down. Shiro’s breath comes quick and spastic, stomach hollowing out when he feels the smooth side of the claws touching the skin below his navel. Panic swells and he would scream - and beg, they’d finally hear him beg! - if not for an arm wound around his throat that cuts off his air supply, holding his head up so he can’t even see...

But then - cold. He flinches when rough hands push between his legs and then there’s cold enough to make him hiss and a clinck of metal, and then the Galra steps away and Shiro is let go. He falls to his knees, wheezing, trying to catch his breath, curled protectively around himself, praying that this is it, that this is enough.

He dares to look down, between his thighs, and the sight that greets him is incomprehensible for the first few moments. His brain is still rebooting, he can’t get it around the idea of a - what is this even? Some sort of contraption around his cock. Cold enough to make him shrink, and tight enough to make this change of size inconsequential. It’s black and ribbed, and…

He looks up, at the Galra, ignoring the smirking guards, one thought burning in his mind.

_What the fuck._

**_What the fuck._ **

Unlike his goons, the slave owner doesn’t seem to be smug. His expression, as much as there is of it, is calm and, goddamnit, almost _proud_. “You will get even better,” he says. A small shiny trinket hangs from one of his claws. Shiro’s breath catches when he recognises what it is. “You have no choice, now.”

Then they leave, finally leaving Shiro alone.

The door closes behind them, but he doesn’t move. Minutes trickle by, his skin starts to dry, it’s cold and he starts to shiver, but still makes no move to retrieve his clothes.  He doesn't feel real, for some reason. What just happened.

What the hell just happened?

After another few minutes passes him by, Shiro pulls himself together, moves back against the wall and sits up, splaying his knees wide - and looks down.

No two ways about it, the contraption they put on him is some sort of a cock cage, trapping his penis under the layer of shiny metal. It was attached at the base with a ring that hooked under his sack, making it pretty much impossible to remove without castrating himself. Nonetheless, Shiro tries. He tries to push his scrapped nails into the hairline seam of the thing, to find the lock (there has to be a lock, there was a key!), to someway slip the thing off…!

He fails on all accounts.

It isn’t causing him pain, but is nowhere near comfortable, pushing his manhood close to the body. At least there is a slit on the end of it, so pissing won’t be a problem, but that’s a small improvement.

Still in a daze, Shiro slowly gets his clothes back from the corner of the cell and pulls them on. From the outside of his suit the difference is nearly unnoticeable. At least that he can keep - a thin veneer of dignity when he is finally allowed to join his fellow slaves.

Shiro tries to tell himself it’s not that bad. It’s not like he used to beat off at every opportunity since they were enslaved. The invasion of personal boundaries stings the most, but he is able to deal with it. He has to be.

 

………………………...

 

A week in, and he starts to welcome the cold baths.

 

…………………………

 

**6 months post capture.**

 

He can’t stand it. He can’t…

The arena swims with blood and he stands in it, alive and gasping, terrifying and terrified of what he’s becoming. He can’t focus, god, it’s so hard to think!

The flesh between his legs keeps pulsing, an unending rhythm of his heartbeat reflected back in pain and mind-numbing desire to tear it off, to stop this torture, to free himself…

He wants to touch himself. More than anything, he wants to shove his hand down his suit and touch himself! He can't think like that, can’t… calm down! He can’t calm down anymore, can’t not be angry and violent!

It isn't him, he knows even as he slides to his knees, kneeling in the blood. This isn't him!  This - animal that will attack others without mercy just for a hope, for a promise of freedom from the strange torture he’s subjected to. He can’t even sleep anymore! He wants it off…

One more fight, his owner told him.

Two more.

Five more

This is almost the last one. Just one more.

He knows, Shiro knows - with his logical mind - that it’s all lies. That he’s being strung up and that the Galran lies to him, and he is an idiot for wanting to believe these lies! But every time he sees the key jingling in front of his face, he lets himself be cheated again.

God, no wonder the creatures he’s fighting are so out of their minds and aggressive - Shiro understands it now. He is turning like them, into some sort of a beast. And all that’s needed is some hopeless fear and sexual frustration.

He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He does both.

At this point even the cold ‘bath’ isn’t much help. He’s left on his own again, apparently he’s earned it - the luxury of a solitary confinement.   

But it’s hard to complain about it when it allows him to break his composure and reach down, to wrap his hands over the warm, wet metal and tug. The pain is grounding, but only for so long. After a while every sensation becomes stimulating enough and this time is no different.

God, he is dirty, absolutely filthy as he first showes his fingers into his mouth and then lower, into the other orifice - pushes them deep, rough, hooks them against the point that he knows is there somewhere… _Ack!_ There!

Body hunching down, Shiro gasps a curse and trembles as a spark of sensation shoots up his spine. Of course his cock wants to swell even more, but he can deal with that pain, because that is the only way to get any sort of relief - no matter how brief it is. He grunts like an animal, showing his fingers in and out, dragging them against his prostate, feeling how his thighs tremble and his toes curl. It’s painful more than anything, but he can’t stop. He _can’t_.

He doesn’t come - he never could, not from _that_ \- but there comes a moment when the sensations get strong enough to overwhelm him and push him into a sort of numbness. He rests his forehead against the floor, both hands still between his legs, and gasps these big sobbing breaths, marginally short of wailing.

Shiro imagines himself as one of these things - mindless and broken, fighting for an empty promise of even emptier relief - and it hurts, because that seems to be his future. He will rot in that place, with no escape, with no dignity.

This place will destroy him.

 

…………………………

 

**6 months and 1 week.**

 

The Druids are not interested in anything he has to say. When they need information, they take it straight from his mind, in a process as excruciating as it’s terrifying. He thought that he can’t be made to suffer more, that he was already at the bottom of the ocean.

He was wrong, the Druids find new ways to split him open and pull him apart.

To the point where he isn't sure that he’s lost his arm on the arena or on an operation table. The new limb just IS - cold and lifeless, and alien.

The cage is still on. But at least now he has something to kill his libido with permanently.

At least, until he goes back to the arena. Because of course he does, they have to check if his ‘upgrades’ work properly. He doesn't even know _what_ they’ve upgraded, but then, neither does he care.

He’s the Champion again and it’s enough to almost break the tenuous hold he still has on his sanity.

  


…………………………

 

**11 months and 3 weeks post capture.**

 

When the chance to escape comes, Shiro grasps it with both of his hands, pulls it to his chest and doesn’t let go. _Can’t let go_. He needs to get away, there’s nothing else left, he needs to get away from this bloodsoaked Hell.   

 

…………………………

 

Back on Earth the nightmare doesn't end until he lands in a rickety shack that Keith calls home (Really? This? Poor kid deserves so much better!) along with a group of children he shouldn't be pulling into this mess.  

His brain is still half-numb from the happenings of the last - last _forever_ , really. But the last twelve hours mostly. To have his hopes raised like that and then crushed in a speck of a second when his own people decided to imprison him.

But he is free now.

Well, mostly.

Tension in the shack runs high with so many characters present and Shiro feels like a stranger. The home he returned to is hostile, he can’t stay - they don't want to hear his warnings, so it's already too late, Galra will follow.  

“Here.” Keith stands in front of him, with a worried look and a bundle of towels in his hands. He pushes them forward and Shiro automatically takes them. “I have a shower you can use,” the kid says. A look of shame crosses his face and Shiro wants to make it disappear so much his heart aches. “It’s not much, this place. And I don’t have any clothes that will fit you. But you can at least wash in peace and there should be enough hot water for a while.”

Shiro almost reaches out with his grafted limb, but at the last moment remembers himself and uses the human one to ruffle Keith’s hair. God, it feels so normal, it’s been so long since he’d dared to touch anyone gently. “Don’t worry.” This is more than he’s had since that failed mission.

Keith smiles at him - until his eyebrows pull together in concern when Shiro asks him for a screwdriver.

 

…………………………

 

It’s hard enough to reach the lock on the cage as it is - it’s even harder when one is sitting in a tiny, dimly lit cabin, with a water beating down on them and the steam half-obscuring their vision. But he manages. Desperation is a powerful tool.

Not as powerful as a hefty screwdriver, that is, but it helps immensely.

Shiro struggles with the lock, clumsy left hand losing the perfect angle once or twice. He doesn't use the right one - he still has problems with dosing the strength in it and having it handle a sharp tool near is dick is a very bad idea.

Galran technology is ages above anything that humanity can offer, but their manual locks are quite less advanced. It takes a lot of fiddling, two changes of the screwdriver’s head and a lot of swearing through the bitten lips. His hand slips, every tug on his manhood reverberates up his spine, he knows that he’s taking a while and that sooner or later one of the kids will knock on the door to see if he’s alright - but he wants this off. He _needs_ this thing off! Anything that’s Galran he wants off of him! He will start working on discarding the arm as soon as he just gets this…

The metal clicks, snaps open, clangs against the floor tile. The screwdriver slips out of Shiro’s fingers.

He doesn’t look for a full minute. He can’t. He doesn't have the courage.

He hasn’t seen himself in so long - how many months? - and he can’t be sure that it’s still - _him_. Just look at the arm. What would stop the bastards from playing that last cruel joke on him?

But the time ticks away and the water falling over his hunched back runs down his body - down his chest, abs, the short curls below his navel and finally… finally…

Shiro gasps, shocked, when the droplets drip down his cock, each like a finger trailing down the shaft. He is so tender and sensitive he can almost feel the air bearing down on him. Heart in his throat, he dares to look.

It’s like a completely new body part to him. The flesh is pale and creased, swollen, but not in the way of excitement, but rather from the long confinement. He wants to touch it, to make sure it’s real. He’s afraid to touch it. There are children behind these doors.

He can also see the the cage. Resting on the floor between his splayed knees, open and harmless now, even looking quite flimsy. Such a small thing, no more than a toy… and it brought him so much pain. So much suffering.

His grafted hand tightens around it before Shiro even realises that he’s ordered it to crush it. And that’s what his new fingers do - the metal squeaks in protest and then it gives, crumbling into a handful of bent scraps.

It’s easier to breathe, instantly. As if he just tore a collar off of his neck.

The first touch is light, barely there. Just a whisper of a fingertip against the base, a gentle trail halfway up - and Shiro has to slap a hand over his mouth to stop a moan from escaping him.

There are children behind these doors. He has to… he has to be quiet.

But he is so sensitive, god, as if every touch receptor in his body decided to settle down in his dick. The sensations as the fondling grows more insistent are enough to roll his eyes up, to rob him of his breath - and yet he can’t stop. It's been _so long._

His flesh turns warmer, swells in his hand - for the first time in ages uninterrupted, and Shiro almost weeps when the foreskin slips back baring the head, and he can wrap his fingers around the shaft unhindered. It’s like riding a bicycle - he jokes to himself and a startled giggle almost escapes him - no matter how long he’s gone without, his body remembers the motions. Just gentle, gentle at first, fingertips teasing the underside, tracing the veins from the base to the top, thumb rubbing the head no stronger than a breeze. His teeth scrape against metal of his wrist that he uses to gag himself, to keep the noise to a minimum.

He wants to take all the time in the world, but he knows that there’s not much of it left. So Shiro forces himself to go on, faster, tightens his fingers increment by increment, allows them to slip higher, to brush over the glands. Warm water aids the glide, washes off the last traces of the oppressive feeling as his cock twitches in his hand, the sack pulling closer to the body - and he knows it only seems like forever before  he comes. In reality it’s not long at all before the orgasm punches him in the stomach and between the eyes, running up his spine like an electric current that tightens all his muscles, bending his back out and shoving a whole galaxy-full of stars under his eyelids.  

It was… oh god, a quick toss off in the shower shouldn't feel this good, this - downright profound. It shouldn’t have the strength to almost knock Shiro out.

It almost did.

The water washes off the evidence of his frivolity and his jaw aches from biting a chunk of metal until his teeth started to creak. But it’s okay. It’s alright.

He almost drops the bottle of the shampoo when a careful hand knocks on the bathroom’s door.

“Shiro?” Keith’s voice sounds equally careful and concerned. “Are you alright?”

And, for the first time in a year, Shiro tells the truth, “Yeah. I’m alright.”

He’s perfectly fine. He’s finally free.

 

 

 


End file.
